Song of the Outcast
by janelover1
Summary: A revisionist look at events in Rohan's Golden Hall through a different perspective. Oneshot.


A/N: This wanted to be written, so I wrote it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien. I do not own these characters. I do lay claim to this story.

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><p>The first time I saw her was from afar. She was practicing swordplay in a small, dusty corner of the most abandoned of the training yards—I usually didn't come near the yards, tending toward more quiet spaces; I'd come here because I'd thought it unoccupied. Her light hair was pulled up out of harm's way, and it gleamed almost white in the sunlight. The sword sliced through the air like a hot knife through butter, and she whirled round so gracefully, so smoothly… I tripped on the step and fell, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the beautiful creature in front of me.<p>

After that, I watched her whenever I could, though the requirements of my job filled much of my day. Once in a while she would pass through, and I would marvel all over again at her beauty and strength.

When he told her to stop training—apparently it was not suitable or proper behavior for one of her standing—I could only watch as her heart broke in two. I risked all and asked, nay begged, him to allow her to continue. He refused. He told me that I knew nothing about her and never would. Apparently I was too low, too unworthy to even speak her name. (Though by now I knew it, and in the secret of my own room, I would say it to myself, listening to the sweet syllables sliding over my tongue.) But I stayed and said no more, for he was my lord and master, and I owed him my allegiance and obedience.

His son, however, was another matter. From the minute I entered their household, the son made it clear that I was utterly below him. I tried not to let his insults wound me. So what if I could not channel bloodlust so easily? So what if I preferred instead to focus on learning and improving my mind? I had always adored words and wordplay, whereas all he thought of was blood and violence. He was all brawn and no brains, always charging straight into fights (and later battles) without a second thought, without any of the necessary planning or preparation. I, on the other hand, often cautioned his father against immediate war, for I believed in caution and restraint—trying to work things out with words, not death. After the first time his father chose my counsel over his, the son resented me implacably.

The nephew, her brother, was my age and thus more malleable. For a time I thought he would forever be on my side. He was quick-witted though hot-tempered, and I did my utmost to introduce him to the glories of words and such. I truly thought we might be the best of friends; in truth we were friends, if only for a time. After all, we were of an age, and our discussions were long and often, ranging over all sorts of topics that would broaden our minds. He adored his older cousin, but I hoped that my friendship would be enough to counter the other's warring influence. And indeed, our friendship stayed, though it did fray a little with time from the growing tension in the household; and for a time I was content.

Then the nephew returned after half a year from his first campaign. Although we had apparently won the battle, I had lost the war. My friend had picked up his older cousin's mannerisms. He no longer advocated lore and learning. Instead he spent much of his free time in the training yards in mindless shows of strength against others. Unlike his sister's graceful moves, he and his comrades used their swords to hack and chop. He and I rarely were together like before, and many a time I would try to start a conversation only to be left hanging as he turned to his new companions and began speaking of more violence and death.

The only thing that gladdened my heart was her ever-graceful presence. She was the ray of hope in the deepening morass of my fading hopes and dreams; she was the one person there in whom I always had faith. I knew that as yet I was unworthy of one such as her—I had none of her grace or beauty; all I had was my resolve to someday earn her respect, to someday be able to step out of the shadows and into her light. To have her watch me as I did her.

But her brother saw and did not approve. I had not realized just how much my old friend had changed until then, until that awful conversation. She had just passed through the hall, and I could not help but watch her: her mere presence lured me in like honey does a bear. And just as angry bees rise up in defense of their own, so did her brother suddenly slam me to the wall, exhibiting all that mindless muscle that he and I had once joked over. He hissed into my face threats and insults. They were the same words I had heard his older cousin and others speak for years now, those words telling me I meant nothing, was worth nothing, would never be anything more than nothing… And when he released me at long last I looked up to find that she had witnessed all. Our eyes locked; she turned away.

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><p>When the wizard approached me a few days later, I accepted his offer. At long last I would matter. I finally had a chance to prove myself; to prove to her that I could be strong like her brother and cousin but that brawn was not everything; that I was not just the man who counseled weakness. That I wasn't someone to be pushed around. That I was actually important.<p>

And perhaps Gríma son of Galmód, lowly advisor and wordsmith, would finally be found worthy.


End file.
